Mass Effect -- The Masked Woman
by MizDirected
Summary: SI Garrus Vakarian is a jaded cop yearning for adventure to pull him out of his dreary day to day. Until the day, he and his partner, Nihlus Kryik are called to a massacre at a posh, presidium hotel. The adventure becomes altogether too real as Garrus is pulled into the world of Jane Shepard, an earthborn heiress with too many secrets ... some of which might just get him killed.
1. Chapter 1

**Buratrum** \- The turian equivalent of hell. The realm of spirits of dishonourable association.

 **Torin** \- Torini plural. Male turian of the age of majority (15)

 **Tarin** \- Tarini plural. Female turian of the age of majority (15)

 **Familia notas** \- The colony markings that turians wear on their faces.

 **Nais** \- Asari having reached the age of maiden (40)

 **Tarc** \- Vulgar turian expletive equivalent to shit.

 **Garrus**

On the Citadel, crime amounted to endless piles of the same thing. On the presidium, white collar formed the rule. The petty stuff stuck mostly to the wards, along with the truly horrific stuff. Sure, the odd presidium banker offed his mistress or a councillor hired someone to snuff a rival, but for true bloodsport, the real slippery, 'dear spirits, are those entrails on my talons' crime … Senior Investigator Garrus Vakarian bet on the wards every single time.

And he would have come out ahead until dispatch called him to the Crown and Dominion Hotel. The moment he crossed the threshold, all the pristine, white-tiled streets, parks, and lakes vanished into the sixth level of _buratrum_. Blood painted the expensive velvet-flocked wall paper three different hues and soaked the antique carpets. He looked down at the blood that seeped out of the rug to pool around his booted talons and waited for his gag reflex to respond.

When it only yawned, far too weary in the ways of slaughter, he sighed and looked up.

 _You've been a cop too long, Vakarian. You're officially jaded._

He held out his right hand, talons snapping. "Someone have some gloves and booties … or hip waders?" he called. He accepted a pair of rubberized booties from one of the crime scene techs and moved over to step into the antiseptic wash at the door. Boots clean, he slipped the covers over his talons. "Who was the first on the scene?"

A timid asari stepped forward, holding up her hand as if being called on in class. "I was the first here, sir. Patrolman Sirri S'tilla."

He shrugged off her name, not caring. "You don't need to sir me, patrolman," he said, snapping latex gloves on over his uniform ones. "I work for a living." He jerked his head toward the macabre scene behind him. "Walk me through it."

He followed the young officer to the door, a wry flick of mandibles greeting her literal interpretation of 'walk me through it'.

"My partner entered through the rear door while I made ingress through the front," she said, walking the path she'd taken. She pointed toward a young human female handcuffed over by the hotel's front desk. "I saw that human searching through the cupboards under the bar. I ordered her to freeze. She complied, and I cuffed her. I proceeded into the lobby and that's when I saw the bodies and called it in."

Teeth clenched, Garrus tuned most of the rest of the report out, focusing his attention to scrutinizing the crime scene. One of the most expensive hotels on the presidium, the Crown and Dominion boasted a clientele of only the top one percent of the one percenters. What in the name of _buratrum_ could have happened there?

"Someone make yourself useful and start running background on the hotel and owners for me," he called toward the usual cluster-fuck of junior officer lookey-loos.

The asari tugged at the collar of her armour and nodded toward the bodies. "I took pictures before I pried a thumb off their … " She cleared her throat. "... equipment and ran fingerprints." She tugged at her collar again, avoiding looking at the staged bodies.

Garrus hid a grin. Was she embarrassed to have touched them? Rookies. Leaving her to squirm, he moved closer, eyes and visor taking in the grisly scene. Each of the victims had been posed as if killed in the act of masturbating, the bodies all boasting a clean, deep slash across their throats and a lap-full of entrails.

The patrolman cleared her throat. "Every last one of these corpses is a known slaver, sir. Two of them are near the top of the Trafficking Bureau's most wanted list."

Garrus's brow plates migrated toward his nose, his practiced calm cracking for a moment. "Slavers?" He held up a talon to circle the corpses. "None of these are guests? None staying in the hotel?" Revulsion faded into surprise, which, in turn, mellowed into curiosity and then into logical process. Even the smallest measure of emotion got in the way of a solid investigation; not a failing he brought to the table. "Their posing suggests this hotel was a front for a prostitution ring as well."

"Yes, sir … I mean, sorry, SI Vakarian. And, no, none of these bodies are registered guests. The guests in the upper levels are all unharmed. The perpetrators locked down all the rooms prior to the attack." The officer blushed a deeper violet. "As for prostitution … there are two sublevels accessible only by a keyed elevator in the hotel offices. In the rooms down there, we found males and females of all species, even a salarian and a hanar. All tell the same story … they were taken from their home colonies or snatched off the streets of Omega … even the Wards here. When they woke up, they were told they could work off the price of their freedom." The _nais_ shuddered.

"What is it?" Garrus narrowed his eyes, studying the asari's face. Something had her rattled, and as much as he might want to chalk it up to a disturbing crime scene, he didn't think so.

Taking a gulping breath, the officer shrugged. "The clientele here clearly have brutal tastes, SI. The slaves down there are in rough shape. A couple of them might not even make it."

Silently thanking her for the chance to prepare himself, he locked down the knot in his guts and turned his attention to the prisoner. "What's her story?"

The _nais_ changed tack with obvious gratitude, spinning to face the young human. "The prisoner's name is Sophie Hakansson. She's twenty-three and moved here from Earth three cycles ago. Lives alone." She scrolled down through her notes. "Works for Shepard Industrial in the Security Mech Division as a computer tech."

"And what was she doing here?" He eyeballed her clothing. She was too clean to have slit even one throat let alone twelve. Still, she didn't look the slightest bit surprised or horrified by the scene. He squinted and crouched down, one forearm braced across his thigh, his visor feeding back her biometrics.

"She says that she heard that this place was a slaving hub and came to try to find her sister." The officer checked her notes. "Apparently, her thirteen-cycle-old sister was grabbed by slavers just over a year ago."

At the mention of the sister, Sophie's heart rate jumped and her jaw clenched. That much was true. After another second, he stood. "Continue, Officer."

The asari nodded and held out an arm toward the door behind the counter. "I continued through to the hotel offices, and found the owner and night clerk both … " She led the way through the door, stalling just inside. "... like this."

Garrus's mandibles flicked. Two human males hung from massive wooden bookshelves. Their attackers had slit their throats and bellies, but those bodies had been nailed to the shelves with their arms outstretched, their feet pointed toward the ground. "Crucified," he whispered, the mystery piquing the macabre part of his brain that found such brutal statements as fascinating as they were revolting.

"Whoever did this doesn't just hate slavers," he said, leaning in. "No, this goes way deeper than hate." Straightening, he looked around. "Has anyone seen my partner?" His hand measured his height. "Big guy, red-brown hide, white _familia notas_?"

When only shrugs answered him, he turned to the patrolman. "Officer, take this transponder code and find my partner." He paused, just to breathe in, but for some spirit-forsaken reason, she seemed to think he was waiting for her to fill in a blank.

"Patrolman Sirri S'tilla, sir."

"Yeah, whatever." He flicked his talons at her. "Run along, and when you find him, drag him out of whatever hole of self-loathing he's wallowing in, run him through a car wash, and get him here."

The asari backed toward the entrance. "A car wash, sir?"

He spun on her with just enough command momentum to send her scurrying. "Go. And stop calling me sir."

When she left, he turned back to the main room, moving deftly between crime scene techs and photographers. Crouching next to the first body—a batarian—he shoved the grotesque and bawdy posing from his mind to take in the details. Every crime boiled down to its details, even one of which, if overlooked, could mean not catching a small gang of brutal murderers.

One brow plate twitched a little. Although, if those bodies all proved to be slavers involved in the sex trade, he wouldn't twist his guts over letting the perpetrators walk. He leaned in, careful not to contaminate the evidence, spying a hair stuck in a collar. No, solving that case would be a matter of pride, not justice, that was already more than evident.

Someone had already seen to justice.

"Tech! Bag and tweezers." He held out a hand, the demanded items appearing as expected. He plucked the hair from the body, holding it up in front of his eyes: long and red, a generous wave along the half-metre length. He bagged it, then held it out. "Tag this."

Human perpetrators? The brow plate twitched again. Not completely unexpected. They had a long and bloody history with batarians and a bone-marrow-deep hatred of slaving. Using the tweezers, he pushed the collar aside to inspect the batarian's neck.

"Dear spirits," a female voice gasped, earning a glance toward the back office. "Are the _fucking_ ambulances on the way? Where in the pits are the ambulances?" The _tarin_ sprinted past him, making it outside before he heard the sounds of retching and the tarin's breakfast hitting the pavement.

Unprofessional. But telling.

He leaned in to sniff the corpse. Perfume. Sweet and floral, not the usual bath of chemicals. Subtle, unlike the brilliant red lipstick smeared on the male's collar and neck. Garrus leaned back, crouching with his weight on one leg, forearm braced across his thigh, his gut beginning to piece together how everything had gone down. Squinting, he turned to pin the prisoner with a calculated stare. She met his eyes, a low fury simmering behind hers.

Defiant and certain that she stood firmly anchored on the side of justice. He respected that.

He stabbed a talon in her direction. "Someone take her over to the precinct and keep her isolated. I don't want anyone to do more than offer her breakfast before I get there." He nodded, not breaking eye contact with the woman when a patrolman acknowledged his order and hurried over to take custody of the witness. Despite her anger, her stare remained open, no sign of shame or guilt. She didn't have anything to do with the murders, but she didn't harbour the slightest scrap of compassion for the victims.

She remained locked onto him, a missile homed in on a priority target, until her escort herded her through the door. A wry grin tweaked one mandible. Lots of attitude there. He shook his head and continued down the body. Most of the evidence from the victim's clothing would have to wait until the medical examiner got a chance to sort through the guts draped down the man's front.

Discovering the same lipstick and perfume combination on each of the bodies—three batarians, two humans, and a turian—he noted that the particular shade of red showed up brilliant even against the wash of blood. Intentional? Another defiance? At least one of the killers standing up to say, 'I did it, and I'm proud of it'.

"Dear spirits." That time, the oath came from a voice that Garrus recognized. "What the hell happened here?"

Pushing up, Garrus turned toward his partner and cocked a brow plate. "And here, I thought that figuring out what happened was our job." He took a quick inventory of Senior Investigator Nihlus Kryik's inebriation level. "Where were you? The call came in over an hour ago."

"At home. Asleep." The _torin_ stepped carefully around the evidence markers, his coordination confirming the truth of his claim.

Sober.

Garrus nodded and turned back to the work. That made for a nice change of pace.

"Come on," he said, leading the way into the office. "You got here just in time for the really fucked up _tarc_."

(A-N: Originally, this story was meant to be co-written with someone else who was going to write Kal'Reegar as Garrus's partner, but real life is a thing. Since Kal was a character she was feeling, I've brought Nihlus in, instead. So apologies for those expecting Kal. :D Hopefully, Nihlus will prove a fun counter to Garrus.)


	2. Chapter 2

**Trigger warning for mention of graphic violence and torture is marked within the chapter so you can avoid it.**

 **Torin** \- Torini plural. Male turian of the age of majority (15)

 **Tarin** \- Tarini plural. Female turian of the age of majority (15)

 **Tarc** \- Vulgar expletive equivalent to shit.

 **Familia notas** \- The colony markings that turians wear on their faces.

 **Tempastarc** \- (Turian) equivalent of shitstorm. Literally a storm of feces. Also works as a replacement for shit hitting the fan.

 **Four hours later**

Garrus leaned heavily on the toilet seat, saliva running from his mouth: a veritable waterfall splashing into the fouled water in the bowl. Staring at the remains of his breakfast, he let the misery of his rolling belly and acid-burned mouth crush down the horror and stink of the hotel basement. No idea how he'd managed to keep his _tarc_ together until he got back to the precinct, he gave himself a few minutes to wallow in weary misery.

Spirits, he needed a drink. It'd be hours yet though. He wondered if Nihlus had succumbed to the siren call of his brandy, then chuffed as jealousy wandered through, throwing a smirk at him over its shoulder. Actually wishing he allowed himself the base level of his partner's disillusionment? Well, he supposed there was a first time for everything.

The washroom door opened, mechanism squeaking and grinding before the door slammed into the wall.

" _Tarc_!" He jumped, the scare tossing his stomach back into dry-heaving. Muscles tying themselves into knots, throat burning, he managed to get up a little swallowed spit before collapsing back over the toilet. They really needed to fix that fucking door. He groped for the toilet paper, but then a couple of moist cloth packets and a bottle of water appeared under the stall divider.

"You should drink some water. At the very least it'll give you something to heave up," Nihlus said through the metal. The toilet seat in the next stall thumped, a hollow echo through the space as Nihlus sat down. "Boss wants to see us. Figured you'd better not smell like half-digested drellak steak." He chuffed. "Brush your teeth too. Spirits, what a reek. I can smell your breath from here."

Garrus grumbled as he accepted the cloths and ripped open the package. "Why aren't you puking up your guts?" The cloths' astringent snapped at the lining of his nostrils and he sneezed, wincing as his stomach muscles spasmed. He clutched the cloths in one hand, hanging over the bowl, not at all certain he should bother wiping his face just yet.

Nihlus sniffed and walked out to the sinks. "Guess there are upsides to being a drunk most of the time." A low, miserable susurrus of subvocals trembled through the air. "What a day to come to work sober, though. Fuck." The water turned on, and Garrus heard splashing. "I've never seen anything like that fucked up _tarc_ , and hope to all the good spirits that I never do again."

"Agreed." Garrus dragged his tongue around the inside of his mouth, then spat. "Any word on the hanar and the salarian?" Using the seat to brace himself, he pushed up off the floor onto shaking legs and flushed. Turning around, he sat on the seat's edge.

"The hanar died in triage." Nihlus let out a long breath that sounded a lot like a deflating tire. "They can lose a tentacle or two and get by, but what she'd been through … the shock was too much for her system." Another distressed rumble followed a heavy thump that Garrus envisioned accompanying his partner slamming the heels of his hands into the counter. "The salarian should recover, but they said he's going to need a half-dozen rounds of reconstructive surgery. One of the humans died en route to the hospital as well."

Garrus plastered the cloths to his face and leaned into his hands, the cool glorious against his plates. "Sick fucks. We should be giving medals to the team who took those bastards out, not hunting them down."

Nihlus chuffed, his subvocals giving nothing away. "Well, like it or not, our job is to find the people who soaked that place in blood and arrest them, so if you're done saying goodbye to your breakfast, Mordin has some information for us."

Letting out a long breath, Garrus stood and slapped the door control. "I want to interview that witness—Sophie Hakansson—solo," he said, striding out. He turned the water good and hot and washed up. "She knows who did it, but if her sister was taken by slavers, she's going to be sympathetic to the perps and hostile as hell toward us. If both of us go at her in there, she'll just lock her mouth shut and lawyer up."

Nihlus nodded. "Fine, but I'm not facing Mordin alone, so just kick that idea … " He pointed a talon in Garrus's face. "... yeah, that one … that I can go down to autopsy while you do the interview … just kick that craziness right out of your head." He straightened and stared into the mirror. "I'm getting too old for this _tarc_." That said, he dusted down the front of his uniform, sucked in a quick, deep breath and pivoted on his talons, marching to the door.

 **{TW:** mention of excessive violence and torture **}**

Garrus snatched a half dozen towels from the dispenser, mopped off the water, and gave himself a good, hard shake. Still, nearly a half hour of puking later, he couldn't scrub his brain clean of the mewling sounds made by the hanar they found in the deepest corner of that hell hole. He'd tripped over a chunk of one of its tentacles before he realized it was just one of many pieces lying scattered around the floor. The entire room glistened with the poor thing's blood. It … no—he shook his head, mandibles flicking with pique—not poor thing … not it … _she_ …. _She_ begged him to kill her, and for a moment, he'd considered giving her what she wanted. Sometimes being the law sucked, and he wondered if he hadn't held onto his badge one day too many.

At least the killers had wreaked bloody vengeance on the bastards who'd been torturing the hanar. Brutal and sick as it was on its own, he'd felt nothing but righteous satisfaction when he saw the two males and a female who'd been shot in the groins, had their hands and feet cut off, and been hung from the same shackles they'd used on their victim. Staring into his reflection, he swallowed hard and cracked his neck. He hoped they'd suffered as they bled out.

 **{End TW}**

Oddly … well, maybe not so oddly … the killers had shown great mercy and care for the injured slaves. They'd taken the hanar down and laid her on the bed. They'd even injected her with medigel to stop the bleeding and a given her a massive dose of painkillers, which meant they'd come prepared. Garrus spun away from the mirror and strode to the door, turning the crime scene over and over in his head. It had been a rescue mission; he felt that in his gut despite not finding any evidence of slaves being removed from the hotel. The ones in the basement levels had been unshackled and made comfortable if too badly injured to move on their own, but every room remained occupied.

Maybe he'd reached the 'going private' stage of his career: get his PI license, and set up a small, quiet office on the presidium. He could spend his days looking for lost pets and getting dirt on cheating spouses. His father would explode, which made the proposition that much more appealing.

He turned toward the interrogation room, then scuffed to a halt, his boots squeaking as they caught on the flooring, and detoured toward the elevator. Mordin, first. If he left Nihlus alone with their medical examiner, he'd never hear the end of it. As it was, he discovered his partner waiting in the elevator, the almost comforting smell of brandy wafting through the air. Finally. The universe settled back into line. Nihlus drinking to deal with Mordin; Garrus stoic-faced, buttoned down, and pissed off. Check.

"Too afraid to even go down there alone?" he asked, punching the controls.

"I can't take another lecture on the origins of DNA testing or the miracle of the liver." Nihlus took another swig from his flask, then corked it and tucked it back into its pocket.

Garrus hid his smirk and shook his head. "He just talks too much. He doesn't bite."

Nihlus's turn to chuff. "Right, like he wasn't an STG specialist." His voice tunneled down into his throat, moving to mostly subvocals, as if the salarian could hear him even two floors up. "They say that he's taken out entire enemy forces using means that would scare even a yahg."

Cocking a brow plate, Garrus glanced sidelong at his partner. "You know he spreads those rumours himself, right?" Before Nihlus answered, the door opened to the dim lighting of Autopsy. Mordin said he kept the surrounding area dim to boost the effectiveness of his table-mounted lighting. Garrus suspected darker—and more hilarious—reasons.

"Finished initial scans of bodies found in lobby. No sign of struggle," Mordin announced as the partners walked through the door. His tone seemed to indicate good news, so Garrus waited for the other mandible to flick.

Nihlus never proved as patient. "None of them? All twelve died without lifting a hand to save themselves?" The _torin_ strode over to look down at the human on the closest table, his _familia notas_ glowing under the lights. "How's that even possible?"

Mordin's all-too-pleased grin told Garrus to expect a lot weirder yet. "Stranger still." He leaned on the edge of the table. "According to examination of wound patterns, lipstick, and olfactory evidence … all killed by same individual."

"What?" Garrus snapped his mouth closed, tugging his mandibles tight against his teeth. Damn, he fell right into that one. Mordin's grin thanked him, setting off a virulent burning beneath his plates. Damn salarian showboat.

Nihlus bent down as if waiting for the body to whisper what happened into his ear. "The bodies and scene showed no signs that they were killed elsewhere and moved." He chuffed and straightened, pulling his head back on his neck, stiffening as his mind swirled through the alcohol, figuring it all out. "There's no way twelve people sat there wanking while someone slit their throats."

"Answer is right there in front of you." Mordin's sly grin spread. "Used this method once, although not through cosmetic delivery system. Fascinating psychological warfare. Also diabolical, but fascinating."

"Some sort of knock out drug, either in the lipstick or perfume?" Garrus supplied, joining them at the table. Ice crackled along his bones, rimy and gelid.

"Police," Mordin said, his concave chest heaving with a soft snort of combined disdain and pity, "don't think diabolically enough."

" _Tarc_." Nihlus groaned. "A paralytic?" His mandibles flailed as if he needed to run up and replace Garrus hanging over a toilet. "They were conscious and watched this happen."

The ME nodded, setting off a war between at least three factions in Garrus's belly … not the least of which was satisfaction. He packed it down, the effort folding his insides into intestinal origami.

Origami? Really? He needed to spend less time in his boss's office.

"So, we could be dealing with one killer?" he asked.

"Definitely one killer in lobby, but not working alone." The salarian gestured to the wide gash across the throat. "These kills personal, full of rage. Clean wounds demonstrate skill. No hesitation or practice cuts. Depth shows crime of passion. Kills in basement: impersonal … distanced. Guns rather than knives."

"Yeah, I'm fairly sure the fact they're all slit from chin to sex says there's some passion there," Garrus agreed. He studied the body. "This was about spilling guts. That's a human saying, right? Spill your guts?"

"Indeed." Mordin clucked softly to himself and moved down to draw the dead man's shirt aside. "Clothes undamaged. Shirt and trousers open." He crossed his arms, lifting his fingers to tap against his mouth. "Killer lures slavers there, promises private dance?"

Garrus nodded, following and agreeing with the ME's logic. "Gets their shirts and trousers open, paralyses them, and then takes her time."

"Kills them and humiliates them," Nihlus added. "Makes sure that people are going to laugh at the fact they were discovered fondling themselves." He looked up to meet Garrus's eyes, his gaze steady. "An ex-slave?"

Garrus's gut untied and dropped like a rock. _Tarc._ Now he didn't just have to arrest a justified killer, he had to arrest someone who'd lived through that hell. He let out a tight breath, the air whistling a little through his throat. Spirits, he needed a drink.

And a PI license.

"That all you've got, Doc?" he asked, dragging himself back.

Mordin nodded and turned away, lifting a pair of scissors from a small table. "Preliminary samples already sent up to Tali'Zorah in the lab. Will call as soon as I know more."

Grabbing Nihlus's arm, Garrus headed for the elevator, resolve settling into every fibre of his being like hot cement. "Thanks, Doc," he called, flinging the words over his shoulder. He glanced at his partner, glad to see Nihlus's neck and mandibles set. "We need to get something out of Sophie Hakansson. She knows who's behind this."

"She was there looking for her sister," Nihlus agreed. He hit the control, then turned to face Garrus, leaning against the wall next to the door. "Her sister was taken by slavers." A long sigh followed that, a brief mandible twitch betraying his trail of thought. "And now we have to arrest some traumatized kid for taking her revenge."

Garrus just nodded, keeping that ugly truth caged in the back of his mind. First, they needed to solve the damned case. Then they could deal with the _tempastarc_.

Spirits, he needed a drink.


	3. Chapter 3

**Trigger warning marked in text for mention of past atrocities at the hands of slavers.**

 **Torin** \- Torini plural. Male turian of the age of majority (15)

 **Tarin** \- Tarini plural. Female turian of the age of majority (15)

 **Stulti mendur** \- Literal: foolish lies. Vernacular: Bullshit. Short form: Stulti

 **Precor** \- Damned. Cursed.

 **Spurin** \- (plural: spurin) Equivalent of bastard, but in the sense of an unpleasant and despicable person rather than the sense of being of illegitimate birth.

 **Obluvis** \- One who is senile or absent-minded. Slang: Idiot

 **Tarc** \- Vulgar expletive equivalent to shit.

 **Rylamia** \- A hardy, ground hugging shrub with woody stalks, spiky leaves and tiny, white, star-shaped flowers. The flowers are harvested to make tea, a favourite beverage while available. Also grown to process into sugar.

 **Two hours later:**

Garrus watched Sophie Hakansson through the two way mirror for over an hour before going into the interrogation room. The entire situation set his teeth grinding, and something about the girl just added to what his boss called 'the screaming willies'. She was hiding something from him, a rare enough occurrence to be noteworthy, and he needed a better read on her before going in. After what happened to her sister, cops would amount to nothing more than _spurin_ trying to get in her way. In her world, killers played the hero roles.

Not that it mattered, but just maybe they did in his as well.

He crossed his arms and slouched in his chair, broadcasting a careless nonchalance despite her not being able to see him. Energy travelled and infected everyone around it, and he needed her calm and cooperative.

Within five minutes of arriving, when he heard her stomach growling through the recording equipment, he sent a patrolman out to bring the young woman some lunch. Fifteen minutes later, Nihlus set a burger and fries from the most popular restaurant on the Citadel in front of her. Garrus's partner smiled, nodded in answer to her thanks, then left the atmosphere in the room calm and grateful. Despite his drinking, Nihlus was the only one Garrus trusted to read the situation and not set everything back with random _stulti_ conversation or questions.

Sophie tore into the food, shoving it in like she hadn't eaten in weeks. When the meal vanished in under two minutes, leaving her staring at the wrappers as though she wanted nothing more than to pick them up and lick them clean, he sent for another, making himself comfortable in the observation room.

"Turn on the vid screen for her," Garrus ordered, shooting a quick glance over his shoulder at the tech. "Let's see where Sophie Hakansson's mind is."

"Even the porn channels?" the _torin_ asked without looking away from his screens.

Garrus twisted in his seat, laser stare drilling through the back of the tech's head until the _torin_ squirmed in his chair. Sneaking a peek over his shoulder, the tech shrugged—slanted and pissed off—and looked back to his computer.

"Okay, fine, no porn channels," the tech whispered, muttering under his breath as he carried out his duties. " _Precor_ SI's, all so fucking perfect, think they know every fucking thing."

"Really? You asked if you should open the porn channels for a barely grown teenager who was arrested while trying to find her sister at a slaughter-brothel, and I'm the _spurin_? Dear fucking spirits." After listening to a couple more grumbles, Garrus kicked the back of the fellow's chair. "Shut the fuck up. I'm sitting less than a metre away, I can hear the names you're muttering, _obluvis_."

The interrogation room door opening pulled him away from giving the chair another kick … and maybe aiming a bit higher. Garrus turned to watch Sophie's reaction. A crooked grin answered the girl's incredulity as Nihlus placed another meal, a chocolate milkshake, and the remote for the vid screen on the table.

"My partner will be a while longer, yet. He's still working on making sure the slaves we found there are taken care of." A tiny lie. Nihlus was seeing to the freed slaves, his skills and compassion of the most use there for the time being. As much as neither one of them could ever admit it—just never—Garrus needed Nihlus. The older _torin_ formed the heart of their team. Sure, he had brains and instinct to spare, but he filled in the gap where Garrus lacked heart.

Nihlus gave the girl a casual, friendly wink. "Eat up, and make yourself comfortable. The vid screen is on." He spun on his heel and marched out before she could do anything more than sputter a couple of times. Garrus's grin tilted a little. No one could set the atmosphere of an interrogation faster than his partner.

Maybe it was time for Nihlus to get a PI license as well. They'd make a decent partnership, and maybe Nihlus might actually find reasons to stay sober if he didn't need to deal with horror on a daily basis.

Sophie looked up at the mirror. "I know you're in there, and you're not going to be able to bribe my cooperation with burgers and milkshakes." Still, she lifted the shake, toasting the window before taking a long pull on the straw. A soft moan purred from her throat, her eyes closing as she savoured the flavour. "But thanks. They're delicious."

"She's got your number," the tech said, his chuckle high and delighted.

Garrus opened his rage tank's valve a little, anger a smidge too molten for the situation trickling out. "Shut up or get out." Garrus kicked the tech's chair again, hard enough to throw the _torin_ into the console. He slammed that valve shut.

The tech squawked. " _Tarc_! Do you have to be such _spurin_?"

"Yes." Garrus turned back to the show inside the room and reclined in his chair, lifting his feet onto the narrow desk under the mirror. Sophie's second lunch disappeared at a much more moderate pace than the first. "Stow the commentary or leave."

The door behind Garrus opened, the glaring light from the corridor silhouetting the large frame of his lieutenant, Joryn. "You're not in there yet?" the human asked. The man stepped up to the glass, standing with his feet braced apart and arms crossed. "She eats like she's been starved."

Garrus watched his boss, appreciating the air of calm competency that Joryn brought into the room with him. "I'm giving her time to settle in, get some ownership of the space," he replied. "She's going to be hostile and defensive, so the more control she feels she has, the better."

Joryn chuckled and reached up to rub the short, dark growth of hair that covered his cheeks and chin. "You're full of shit, Vakarian. Just get her to talk." He returned to the door, hesitating with his hand on the control. "The council's losing their shit over this massacre happening a stone's throw from the tower and with important diplomats staying in the hotel. We need to solve this one and fast."

The SI chuffed. "You can thank the council for their concern, but I've been a clown in this circus for a while now. I'll get the job done, but I won't be rushed into some half-assed investigation. It'll take as long as it takes." Garrus dropped his feet to the floor and shoved his ass to the back of the chair. "Maybe, if they're concerned about the safety of their diplomatic visitors, they should put them up in a hotel that doesn't boast a sex slave abattoir in the basement." He cut a sharp glance toward the door. "Thanks for stopping by."

"You're an asshole," Joryn grumbled as he stepped out the door. "Just catch these bastards."

Garrus gave the tech's chair a preemptive kick before the _torin_ could say anything. His life came complete with the commentary: deluxe edition, he didn't need any extra. Leaning forward, he braced his forearms across his thighs and watched Sophie finish her lunch. She turned on the vid screen, fiddled with it for a bit, then settled on some family-based sitcom.

He narrowed his eyes. She kept her emotions well in hand: pulse and respiration slow and even, her face schooled into a passive mask. Had she been trained? If so, the landscape might be prove a lot more treacherous than he imagined. Of course, she'd been searching for a slave. That meant dealing with slave brokers and all sorts of scary people who took advantage of fear. Her skills may have come from self-preservation or been provided by the helpful people assisting her search.

He shifted, squinting further. Something about the girl set off his alarms despite his belief that she hadn't laid a finger on the dead slavers: something deeper than her control. Yes, he saw all the expected emotions, tiny hints of them coming across in the unconscious, contemptuous curl at the corner of her lip, fear showing in the way she swallowed, anxiousness in her jaw tension and restless hands. All of those emotions registered as appropriate to her situation.

What he didn't understand was the guilt and shame he saw layered over the rest. He guessed that the reasons for both lie in the secret that she kept trapping behind the steepled fingers pressed to her mouth: humans called it a shushing gesture. He pushed up onto his feet. Time to get in there while her full belly lulled her into a more relaxed frame of mind. Aware of his manipulation or not, some defenses couldn't help lowering: a fact true of all species in a variety of different situations. Turians, as Nihlus could bear witness, could be talked into giving up just about anything in the moments after orgasm.

Garrus cleared his throat and paused with his hand on the door control. He didn't want to go in there with that on his mind. He'd yet to betray himself to that level, and it made him uncomfortable enough to throw off his entire interview. After a couple of long breaths, he hit the control and walked through the door.

"Hello, Sophie," he said, carefully modulating his subvocals to weave in a fine thread of compassion and comfort. "May I call you Sophie?" He glanced toward the television. "My name is SI Garrus Vakarian. I trust you've been kept comfortable?"

She shrugged and slammed her arms across her chest, erecting a prickly wall of attitude between them. "Sure, as comfortable as someone can be locked in an interrogation room." Leaning back, she took a long draw on the milkshake, watching him from under heavy eyelids. "And, yeah, you can call me Sophie. It'll help in the bonding, really forge a connection between us."

He cleared his throat, allowing a strained chuckle loose as he focused on his omnitool. Glancing up, he jutted his chin out at the wrappers. "You eat like you're starving." Leaning back, he slid lower in the chair, opening his body toward the door. "My information says that you've got a job with Shepard Industrial." He narrowed his eyes to help disguise his regard, watching every muscle that moved under her skin, every twitch of her vitals. "They don't have a reputation for keeping their employees below the poverty level."

Sophie shrugged, pulling one ear to her shoulder, then slouched into her chair. "Shepard Industrial pays well and offers excellent benefits, but searching for a slave is expensive."

Garrus opened a file, pretending to look up information already known and filed in his memory. "Shepard Industrial runs a charitable foundation to help reunite families disrupted by the slave trade … the … uh … Melissa Foundation. Couldn't you have gone to them?"

"Sure, and I did. That call is the reason I'm working there." She let out a long sigh and set the remote down on the table. "Ms. Shepard even met with me herself." A faint, affectionate smile drifted across her face before a twitch of fear erased it, and she shushed herself again.

He relaxed his shoulders; they'd started climbing toward his ears. "She treat you well? She's got a reputation for being quite the philanthropist." He'd dug up and read every article he could find on the heir to the Shepard Industrial fortune. Born on Earth, parents dead before her thirteenth birthday ... her history painted quite the tragic tale.

Sophie nodded, relaxing enough to allay his concern that her reaction owed itself to being afraid of Shepard. "She's a great lady … helped me track where all the slaves taken from my colony ended up. Traced the dealer who sold Anna on Khar'shan."

"But, you still spend all your grocery money on the avenues Shepard can't walk down and maintain her organization's charitable status?" He angled his tone toward 'the law has its limits'. When she gulped and slapped her steepled fingers over her mouth again, he just sighed and shook his head. "That's the thing with the law. It's a set of shackles. For the most part the shackles just seem like supports, but then—"

"We hit a situation that falls outside those carefully drawn lines, and we're helpless to do anything about it?" She dropped her hands, her cocked eyebrow even more biting than her tone. "Right, like I'm going to fall for that line from a cop." A bladed chuckle cut across the table. "After the batarians hit our colony, the Alliance sent me to about three hundred shrinks and social workers." The brow dropped, betraying a fleeting moment of honest vulnerability and sorrow. "Trust me, I've seen every 'getting you to spill your guts' tactic out there." When she looked up, her brown eyes had closed off once more. "You're going to need to up your game, SI."

Garrus shrugged, catching his amused mandible flick before it happened. "If it was a game, sure." He challenged her with a raised brow of his own, his heart speeding up a little, a trickle of adrenaline worming its way through his veins. "It's the truth. I work within the law as much as I can, but sometimes … ." He chuffed. "Well, when I walk into a scene like that hotel, I feel the shackles. The dead people were all the worst sort of _spurin_. They steal the young, slaughter the old … breed people like _drellak_. They got exactly what they deserve."

She snorted. "Only if they suffered like hell before they bled out."

He sniffed and shifted a little, not sure if her slip was a trap, but walking into it nonetheless. "Our medical examiner says they were conscious and paralyzed. They watched the others killed before it was their turn."

A smile cracked the armour for a split second, confirming it. She hadn't been in the hotel when the slaughter went down. Still, at the very least, she suspected the identities of the perpetrators.

"So, you found some information through these other sources … or maybe through Shepard … that those bastards had your sister?" He let his head loll to the left a little. "Were you the one who took care of the slaves in the basement?" Squinting, he examined the shame and guilt as it showed itself. "Whoever pulled them down and gave them medigel is a hero in my book. I've never seen anything like the atrocities going on in those rooms."

Another piece fell into place: she'd been rummaging through cupboards when the officers responded to the call. Searching for more medical supplies.

"The hanar?" she whispered, glancing up, just a quick, soft opening before the wall slammed up again.

Rolling comfort through his subvocals, he shook his head. "I'm sorry, she was too badly injured." Ducking his head, trying to capture her gaze, he smiled, soft and sad. "But she died being taken care of and treated with kindness. She wasn't suffering any longer."

Moving with a sudden burst of violent speed, Sophie shoved away from the table, throwing her chair backwards. "What the fuck does that matter?" she demanded, striding to the mirror, then to the door. Pacing furiously, she kept tapping her fingertips against her lips: her secret trying hard to find its way out into the glaring industrial lighting.

Garrus signalled for the tech to lower the light level a little. "Nothing else matters more," he replied but then shrugged. "Of course, it won't seem like that. Not with your sister still out there." He brought up the report Sophie had filed with the trafficking division and sent it to the vid screen. "Anna Hakansson, ten years old when she was taken."

"She'll be thirteen now if she's still alive." Sophie stopped pacing at the vid screen, setting herself to face it head on, arms crossed, feet wide, legs braced. Her determination tugged at the old, bitter part of him that insisted on clinging to the worst case scenario for everything.

"Look, kid, I'm the last person in the galaxy to coat reality in a thick layer of _rylamia_ , but your sister is alive, and she's not in a place like that." Sophie whirled to face him, her expression calling _stulti,_ but he saw more there … recognition. He nodded, giving her a wry smile. "Oh, heard that before, have you?" Holding a hand out toward her chair, he waited for her to sit. "The Melissa Foundation tell you that?"

The metal chair legs creaked as she thumped down into the seat. "It's bullshit. How can either you or the foundation know she's not in a meat grinder like that." Very real pique drilled a hole straight through his brow plate, so heated that he almost reached up to scratch the spot.

"Because I cut my teeth coming up through trafficking. I know how those bastards work." He rolled his shoulders through a shrug. "Your sister is too young, too healthy, too strong, and too pretty to be dragged into a cutter's den."

"What about the hanar and the salarian?" she demanded, a slight, haughty edge poking at him with her evidence to the contrary. "What about all the rest of those people?"

He relaxed instead of meeting her aggression. "All of the people in that basement were useless in the standard sex trade. They're considered specialty buys." He winced a little at the baldness of that term. "Most of the time, the fact that hanar and salarians have no use in the sex trade is very good news for them." The long breath that preceded the bad news felt like a razor dragging up his throat. "Sometimes, it's very bad news."

"So what you're saying is that my sister is too useful as a regular whore or broodmare to end up somewhere like that?" When he responded with nothing more than the slightest mandible twitch, she leaned forward against the table, her face a mask of smartass layered over white hot fury. "Anyone ever told you that you suck at comforting people?"

Garrus nodded. "Yeah, that's usually my partner's department. I'm the brutal truth department." He gave her a moment to settle back into her chair. "How did you find out about the hotel?" Leaning forward, he crossed his arms on the tabletop. Time to stop coddling and press on her affection for Shepard. "You find out from Shepard? Did the Melissa Foundation let you go into that meat grinder?"

"No!" Genuine horror. Good. "I overheard someone say that they were talking to C-Sec about that hotel. I went early … wanted to sneak in, check for Anna before the cops screwed it up and the bad guys disappeared." She leaned in closer, her voice dropping into her chest, heavy with menace. "I wish I'd had the chance to slit some throat. Those bastards killed my parents and grandparents because they were considered too old to be useful. I'd stick my hands into their blood and paint my damned face with it, so if you're going to go after anyone, you come after me, cop."

Pushing off the table, Garrus nodded. "So you overheard someone planning to go to C-Sec? Or maybe you overheard someone planning to get there before C-Sec." He shrugged when her face full of fury turned to stone. "Hey, I understand. I'd pin medals on every one of the people who went into that place and took those bastards out."

She laughed and threw herself back hard enough that her chair rocked. She pressed a fist to her mouth, stifling a retch. The scent of digesting lunch wafted across the table, tweaking his gag reflex. Well, good to know it still worked for something. He turned to the mirror and gestured for a bucket. Nihlus would be watching. Time to bring in Team Compassion.

{ **TW** }"You don't know anything, cop." She shook her head, the gesture filling the air with shrapnel: sorrow sharpened by three cycles of anger and desperate fear. "Until you've held your raped mother in your arms, your hands pressed to her throat, trying to keep her from bleeding out, crying so hard you vomit all over her corpse, you have no right to tell me you understand anything." { **End TW** }

"Fair enough." He glanced up at Nihlus who set the bucket down on the floor next to Sophie's chair before crouching next to her. Nihlus laid a hand on the girl's shoulder, Sophie surprising Garrus completely when she let it go unremarked. He swallowed a small boulder, envying his partner his ability to connect with other people on that ephemeral level where the spiritualists said they were all the same. Where Garrus observed, Nihlus felt.

"Are you in any danger from the people you followed there?" he asked, cocking his head to meet her anger with sincere concern. "They know we brought you in, and if you have even the slightest doubt that you're safe, tell me. We can put you up somewhere."

Sophie's fingers shushed herself yet again, that time, her fingers trembled. Definitely time to quit. He possessed enough to move on: most importantly the fact that she truly hadn't been involved until after the fact.

Garrus leaned forward, forearms resting on the table. "Is the address we have for you valid?" When she nodded, her spine snapping straight, chin tilting up, he returned it. "Good. I'll have someone take you home, and … like I said, if you're concerned, I can have someone keep an eye on your building."

The interrogation room door opened, a blistering wind swirling through. "That won't be necessary, Senior Investigator," the intruder said. "Miss Hakansson will be coming home with me, and I have the best security on the Citadel." A slender, gloved hand reached out to hover in front of his face.

Surprised into a sort of tasered, tingling numbness, he followed the hand to the arm. The well, muscled arm led to a bare shoulder and a cascade of long, dark copper hair that tumbled over it in glistening waves. He pushed himself up out of the chair, forcing his hands down onto the table top just in case they tried to accept that hair's invitation to run his talons over it, to feel the silken texture against bare hide.

Instead, he shoved his reactions aside and forced himself to meet the brilliant, keenly-sharp blue eyes that smiled at him above slightly pursed, bright red lips. His stare slid to the left side of her face. Her features on that side hid behind an elegantly painted, porcelain mask. "And you are?" he asked, his voice catching on the back of his suddenly sand-coated tongue.

The woman's smile widened as she offered her hand with a little more emphasis. "Jane Shepard, president of the Melissa Foundation. Pleased to meet you."


End file.
